


The Art of It All

by DustInTheWind



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustInTheWind/pseuds/DustInTheWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously, what was wrong with her? Thinking about sex at a time like this? And then she got the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of It All

**Author's Note:**

> The usual disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters. Although I kind of wish I owned Cato, if you know what I mean.

It was disgusting. The way the District 1 girl flirted with the boy from 2. So obvious, so tawdry. Where was the subtlety? The delicacy? The art of it all?

She hated herself for thinking he was hot. _But those arms_ she moaned inwardly as she rubbed herself while she lay in her bed at the Training Center. _And those eyes_ she sighed as her muscles clenched in orgasm.

He’d looked her up and down hungrily at the Tribute Parade. Had raked his gaze over her all throughout training. Had undressed her with his eyes as they lined up backstage before the interviews with Caesar.

At first she’d pretended she didn’t notice. But then she thought about it. Was there really any harm in letting him know (with much more finesse than that whore from 1) that she wanted him too? _Nah_. She knew better than to trust him any farther than she could throw him. Would it help her at all? Probably not, but one never knew.

So on the second day of training, when she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as it had every other time he’d visually molested her, she lifted her eyes to his as she crouched over her snare.

She was ready for this. She’d practiced it in her bathroom mirror. She kept her body relaxed, her gaze calm, but she narrowed her lids just the tiniest bit and allowed a hint of black lust to peek out from behind the edges of her silver irises. Then she let her eyes drift lazily downward, first to caress his biceps, and then to linger on his crotch for a few seconds. She parted her lips ever so slightly, but she did not wet them with her tongue or chew on them with her teeth. She was above such vulgarity. When her eyes returned to his, she blinked once, slowly, like a cat, and then she bent her head back to her snare, deftly finishing the knot she’d begun with steady hands. This wasn’t a pissing contest, after all. Or a challenge. Simply a calculated message.

After that she went back to ignoring him.

\----------

He found her on the fifth day in the arena. She’d been careless. She’d set several snares to catch her daily meat, and he had obviously found one of them. He recognized it as the work of her hands and settled into stakeout mode, waiting for her to return to check it.

With her hunter’s ears, she heard his movements just in time, and scurried up a nearby tree, but she dropped her bow in the process.

“Ahh, so this is how you got that 11,” he said picking it up and studying it. He looked up at her and gave her one of his famous smirks. Then he brought the bow down over his knee as hard as he could, warping the light metal frame, breaking the string.

“What are you gonna do now Girl on Fire?” he cackled, tossing it to the side and looking back up at her with glee.

 _Fuck_. She looked at her quiver of arrows. _Useless_ she thought. She stared at them and sighed morosely. But one of them caught her eye. It was bent, just where the head met the shaft. She figured it had happened when she’d fallen out of the tree the day before as she fled the gamemaker-induced forest fire. _Where the head meets the shaft_ she thought lewdly and giggled internally. Seriously, what was wrong with her? Thinking about sex at a time like this? And then she got the idea.

He was cocky enough, she knew, to view her desire for him as a weakness. But what if she turned it into a strength? What if she harnessed the power and momentum of his own lust and turned it back on him? It was risky, but what other option did she have at this point?

She peeked down at him through the leaves, allowed fear to cloud her eyes, made sure he observed it. Then she scurried further up into the branches, just out of his view.

“It won’t do any good, baby!” he yelled up at her. “You’re gonna have to come down sometime. And when you do, I’ll be here waiting.”

She slipped the deformed arrow from the quiver and patiently bent the tip of it back and forth until it snapped oh-so-quietly off of the shaft. She concealed it in her sleeve and hid the shaft in a tight fork in the branches. “Well I guess I won’t be needing these then,” she said flatly, and dropped the quiver of arrows to the underbrush twenty feet below.

Slowly, she shimmied down a few meters until she returned to his view. She allowed her lust to visibly wage war with her fear across her face. “How about a truce?” she called down to him.

“A truce?”

“Yeah. A temporary one.”

“What are the terms?” he asked.

“You back up--over there,” she said, pointing to a spot about twenty yards from the base of her tree. “And drop your sword at the halfway point between you and me. Then I’ll come down and you give me a head start before you chase me.”

“Now why should I do that?”

“Because otherwise, who knows how long you’ll have to wait before I’m forced to come down. And anyway, you’re a sadistic motherfucker. I can see it in your eyes. You’ll enjoy the hunt.”

He regarded her cautiously, but he was obviously considering the idea, and his eyes gleamed at the thought of chasing his prey down rather than trying to starve it out.

“And even if you don’t catch me, it’s not like I’m any threat to you. You’ve disarmed me. I’m just delaying the inevitable at this point.”

It sealed the deal. He grinned up at her. “Alright. But I’m warning you...when I catch you…”

“ _If_ you catch me,” she corrected him.

“ _When_ I catch you,” he continued, “I’m going to take my time... _enjoying_ you.”

She couldn’t have been more pleased. She shivered, partly with desire, partly with terror.

“How much of a head start do you want?”

She tilted her head and considered. “Count to fifty.”

“Mmmm, that doesn’t seem fair. I think you’ll need at least a hundred.”

“And I think you’re overestimating your abilities.”

“Suit yourself,” he said and snatched the quiver of arrows from the base of the tree, backing up ten yards or so before returning it to the ground. He removed his sword from his belt and dropped it beside the arrows. Then he backed up the rest of the way to the spot she’d designated for him.

She shimmied down the trunk tentatively, pausing when she reached the lowest branch to be sure he was holding up his end of the bargain.

He raised his eyebrows and lifted his hands, palms out towards her, and spread them mockingly, as if to show he meant  no harm.

She leapt to the ground and took off running through the trees.

“One!” she heard him call, and, for some fucked up reason she couldn’t comprehend, she felt a thrill course through her, felt a throbbing sensation between her thighs.

“Two!” _Throb_.

“Three!” _Throb._

Fifty times he called out. Fifty times she felt desire pulse at her core.

She ran quickly, almost sprinting. After all, she didn’t want it to be _that_ obvious.

She heard him approaching, heard him gaining on her. “I’m coming for you Girl on Fire!” Just as she was hoisting herself up into a tree, he caught her by the ankle and gave one swift tug. She let out a yelp as she lost her grip on the bark and crashed to the ground below. She scrambled desperately (or so it seemed to the at-home viewers and the boy from 2), digging her fingers into the dirt in her effort to push herself to her feet and escape.

He grabbed her by her braid and pulled her to a standing position, her back thumping against his chest. At first she was worried that he would take her from behind, which would complicate her plan, possibly foiling it altogether. But he would want to see her face as he thrust into her, she knew.

He turned her to face him, his eyes blazing with hunger. “I warned you,” he said, clucking his tongue. “You should have taken me up on my offer of a hundred. Now don’t try anything. And don’t try to run off. Or I’ll make sure your death is a painful one.”

She nodded mutely. He lifted her chin with one finger and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you come harder than you ever have in your life. And then I’ll snap your neck. Won’t hurt a bit. Easy peasy.” He was unbuckling her belt, drawing her zipper downward.

“I would have thought you’d have gotten at least a little farther,” he said he as he yanked her pants down. “You must have _wanted_ to get caught.”

She let one corner of her mouth twitch upwards as he slipped his first two fingers beneath her underwear. His eyes widened as they came away soaking. “Holy shit you _did_ ,” he whispered.

“What are you going to do with me now that you’ve got me?” she purred.

“Oh-ho,” he chuckled. “The better question is what am I _not_ going to do with you.” He crushed his lips to hers and kissed her roughly, tugging her braid downward to force her head back for easy access. She ran her palm down the hard length of him through his pants and he moaned. Her fingers fumbled at his belt and zipper, until his dick sprang free of its confines, and then she wrapped her hand around him and stroked.

He slid a hand under her shirt to palm her breast and he bit her neck and she whimpered at the sensation. “Please,” she moaned, and he pushed her to the forest floor and hovered over top of her.

“Please what?” he teased her. She grabbed the hand that was on her breast and pushed it down her body.

“Please make me come,” she begged. He pushed her underwear to the side. And then his fingers were inside her, slipping in and out, in and out, in and out, the heel of his hand connecting with the sensitive spot above her opening each time. It was exquisite and she didn’t even have to try to put on a show for him. She gripped his biceps and writhed beneath him and she moaned.

“You like that?” he whispered into her ear.

“Yes, god yes!” she cried.

He increased his speed and force, and she thrust her hips forward to meet his hand. She was almost there. And then he stilled his movement and withdrew his hand. She whimpered in protest and bucked her hips toward him but he held her down.

“Be a good girl and tell all of Panem whose cock you want,” he demanded. “And then I’ll let you come.”

“Cato’s,” she whispered, looking into his eyes through her fog of ecstasy.

“Louder,” he said, and slipped his fingers back inside her.

“Cato’s,” she moaned. He started to move them in and out of her again.

“Louder.”

“Cato’s,” she cried out, tossing her head from side to side, and he picked up his pace again, reaching his free hand up to grasp her chin and turn her face back toward him.

“Louder,” he demanded one last time.

“Cato’s,” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she plummeted over the edge and straight into her orgasm. “Cato. Oh god, Cato,” she moaned as she rode it out.

His face was smug as he leaned over to kiss her with an open mouth, and she parted her lips to welcome his tongue into her mouth, languidly stroking it with her own.

“Fuck that was hot,” he said as he pulled away from her. “But if you thought that was good…” He had braced himself on his arms, one on either side of her, and his head was bent to look down his body as he kicked his pants down to his ankles.

He looked up just as she jammed the arrowhead into his temple, and she watched the show of emotions that played across his face. Confusion. Shock. Understanding. And finally-- _could it be?_ \--hurt at her betrayal.

She cupped his chin tenderly in both of her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him and kissed him once, benevolently, lingeringly, on his forehead, just before the last bit of light faded from his eyes. “So sorry.”

She slipped out from under his body, righted her clothing, and walked away without looking back.

He was right about one thing, she thought, as the cannon sounded. He’d made her come harder than she ever had in her life.

\----------

“Jesus Christ,” Brutus groaned, dropping his head to his hands. How undignified. How fucking humiliating. There lay his tribute, face down in the dirt, his pants around his ankles, his bare ass on display for all of Panem to see, an arrowhead embedded in his temple.


End file.
